


Coral Palms, part Z

by mlraven



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Crack, Florida, Florida Man jokes, Gen, Humor, ToT: Monster Mash, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlraven/pseuds/mlraven
Summary: Z is for zombie apocalypse. Oh boy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesleepingsatellite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesleepingsatellite/gifts).



> Happy Trick-or-Treat season, thesleepingsatellite! This fic was fun to write; I hope you like it. :)
> 
> ENORMOUS kudos and thanks to my phenomenal beta, a, without whom this fic would be 1000% less funny. Seriously, any of the jokes you like, thank a.

_Florida, 2016_

 

“Captain! Hold the door!” Jake yelled over his shoulder, jogging backward down the long hallway. He aimed his phone at the snarling undead stumbling after him. “I gotta get a picture for Boyle, or he’ll never believe this!”

 

Standing under the door to their safe house slash storage unit, Captain Holt crossed his arms over his chest. “Peralta,” he said— not quite raising his voice, but _almost_ — and looked meaningfully at his watch. “Get in here.”

 

Jake stumbled inside, knocking the Captain’s shoulder as he staggered to a clumsy halt, dropping several of the things he was holding. “I did it! I’m back. What up. I’m absolutely crushing it at this zombie apocalypse thing. Sir.”

 

“What took you so long?” Holt asked. As usual, his stony visage betrayed no hint of fear, but there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he slid the first of three padlocks through the slot on the heavy sliding door. “And where are the guns?”

 

Wheezing but grinning broadly, Jake retrieved his dropped phone and rummaged in his pants pockets. After an extended pause, during which he kept up a muttered commentary, he retrieved several magazines, three sticks of foil-wrapped gum, fourteen tokens for the Fun Zone, and what appeared to be a semi-sentient lint bunny.

 

“It’s like Black Friday out there, sir. I managed to fend off the hordes for long enough to grab this ammo, but we’ll need to go back together for the heavy stuff.”

 

Holt’s eyes glinted with stoic fatherly approval. “Teamwork, excellent. Together, we have nothing to fear from these... _zombies_.” The Captain said “zombies” with palpable distaste— the tone he generally reserved for discussing such travesties as verb tense agreement errors in the _New Yorker._

 

“But how did you figure out they’re zombies, sir?” Jake interjected. “Every time I hear about Florida, it’s about cannibals. Or alligators.” He paused, pensive. “Ooh, here’s an idea, do you think we could train a swarm of alligators to eat the zombies?”

 

Holt frowned. “A group of alligators is called a congregation, Peralta. _Who_ was your kindergarten teacher?”

 

“Funny story, actually--”

 

“A rhetorical question,” he added hastily. “Though whoever it was obviously also neglected your instruction in proper shoe safety.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded at Jake’s feet. “Why aren’t your shoes tied? Good heavens, man, we’re fighting a frothing horde of zombies!”

 

Jake blinked. “I thought stopping to tie my shoes in enemy territory might end up with me, you know—” Jake brought his hands up like t-rex claws— “rawr, grawr, chomp!” He clutched his neck dramatically, faux-staggering for a moment. His absolutely flawless impersonation of a zombie went unappreciated; Holt just watched him with detached neutrality, as though waiting rather impatiently for him to get back to the important stuff.

 

“No, I don’t know,” Holt said. Jake opened his mouth to elaborate, but Holt clasped his hands behind his back and turned away, rather abruptly moving on. “We need a plan of attack for breaching their stronghold. To formulate such a plan, we must first assess our resources. Did you see any artillery in this facility’s Lost and Found?”

 

Jake grinned. “No artillery, sir, but I did see a nice metal baseball bat.”

 

The Captain’s eyebrows quirked minutely. “Peralta, are you suggesting we resolve our differences with these cannibalistic Floridians with good old-fashioned sport?”

 

“I was thinking of killing them with it, but-- do you think that would work? They’re not very…coordinated.”

 

“Peralta, everyone deserves the chance to compete in America’s pastime, regardless of physical ability. Additionally, their lack of coordination means they would be easy to beat.”

 

“Ooh, Captain, playing dirty! I like this side of you,” Jake said.

 

“Scratch that idea, Peralta. It was foolish,” Holt said briskly. “What was your plan?”

 

Jake shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I dunno, it’s just very _Left for Dead._ Y’know?”

 

Holt stared at him in silence, with the sort of expectant look in his eyes that indicated that he had not at all understood what Jake had said. Nobly and compassionately, Jake cleared his throat and said, “It’s a— it’s a video game. With zombies?”

 

“Ah,” Holt said. “Like _The Pac Man._ ”

 

“I think it’s-- I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s just Pac-man? But— sure. Yeah. Like that.”

 

“Video games aren’t real, Peralta,” Holt said.

 

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s just shoot them with guns.”

 

—

 

“And then--”

 

“That never happened!” Terry exclaimed.

 

“There are _several_ elements of this story that cast doubt on the veracity of your claims,” Amy added. “For example: Captain Holt would never look at you with stoic fatherly approval, he’s never looked at _me_ with stoic fatherly approval.”

 

She glanced down at her hands and muttered, very quietly, “Nobody’s ever looked at me with stoic fatherly approval.”

 

“Title of your sex tape,” Jake said, instinctively. Then he winced and said, “Sorry. Sorry. That was actually genuinely quite sad, and I’m sorry. Anyway—just—what I’m trying to say is, that’s how we defeated the dreaded Florida zombie plague!”

 

“Just the two of you?” Terry asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “With a baseball bat?”

 

“Well,” Jake said. “Yes. And a sword. And guns. It was really—it was sort of a multi-media experience, you know?”

 

“Where did you find a _sword?_ ” Amy pressed, eyes narrowing. “I thought you were in a self-storage facility?”

 

“In _Florida_ ,” Jake said, as though this explained it. “People in Florida be tripping.”

 

“Do they— be tripping?” Amy glanced around as though looking for someone with more expertise on Florida to chime in. “Is tripping a—what does that have to do with—”

 

“ _Anyway_ , _Amy_ ,” Jake said loudly. “I beheaded the zombie king with a katana, and it was _awesome,_ and you ruined the end of my story. So, thanks for that.”

 

“I’m not buying it,” Terry said flatly.

 

“Well, _I_ believe him,” Boyle said loyally. “If anyone could take down the zombie king, it would be Jake.”

 

Jake crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, grinning rather smugly. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me, it happened. Ask the Captain, if you want.”

 

Captain Holt chose that moment to stick his head into the briefing room. “Peralta, if you’re done exaggerating our escapades, come back to my office so we can finish drafting Zombie Apocalypse Contingency Plan #8.”

 

As Terry and Amy’s jaws dropped, Jake popped up off his chair. “Sayonara, suckers! Gotta go zombie-proof the precinct.” He gave a jaunty wave, and left the briefing room.

 

Amy recovered quickly. “W-wait!” she called after him, jumping up to follow. “You’ll need my organizational skills if we want to survive the apocalypse! I already have a binder started!”

 

Terry shook his head and returned to his computer. “Halloween,” he muttered under his breath. “Always brings out the crazies.”


End file.
